Not a Bad Run
by Keyboard Cabaret
Summary: When the Doctor stands on the brink, in the face of all he has been runing from, what does he feel?  My take on what is going through the Doctor's mind as he walks towards the astronaut on the beach. Spoilers for The Impossible Astronaut!


**Well, I saw the first episode of Doctor Who, and, basically, it BLEW MY F****** MIND! Omg...  
>So, Once I had the power of coherent thought back again, I knew I had to write <em>something <em>for it, however small. And here we are:**

***SPOILERS FROM HERE*  
><strong>**  
>This is the moment at the beginning, when the Doctor is approching the astronaut that just came out of the water; just before he gets zapped. From the Doctors perspective (third person). Spoilers for The Impossible Astronaut.<strong>

**This my first Doctor Who fic attempt, so please R+R! Comments would be greatly appreciated :)**

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><p><strong>Not a Bad Run <strong>

The running. The endless, constant, running. All his life, no matter where, or when, or what. Every second of every moment, in wakefulness or the few inevitable patches of sleep. In the light and the dark, the heat and the cold, invading his consciousness and creeping into his subconscious. Everywhere.

It surrounds him. A lot of the time, he can push it aside. Bury it beneath danger, and excitement, and the never ending thrill of the chase. But sometimes...

Sometimes it fights back, pushing at the walls; flooding his mind, contaminating his thoughts, suffocating him. Sometimes, it's all he can do not to scream, to tear at his own skin, to do _anything _to escape It. But that's not who he is.

That's not who he was.

Right here, right now, on a beach in a tiny planet that just can't look after it's own problems, everything is changing.

He thought he'd never be done saving them. That he would live out forever flitting around the universe, doing good, making mischief, touching stars, then returning to drag this planet and it's inhabitants back out of the dark. Then zooming away again, never stopping, never saying good bye. They never noticed, never tried to know; they just carried on living at let him get on with it. Perhaps that was what he liked so much about them.

Perhaps this is a fitting place for it all to end.

He knows. He _has _known, for some time now, that this will happen. This will happen and he can do nothing. Well... nothing is not strictly true. He was never one for playing by the rules, and his down-fall will be no exception.

But now, he has done everything he can, everything he can think to do. There is nothing left but the hope that his friends will do right, will figure out everything he cannot tell them.

He finds, as he draws closer and closer to the end of this long, _long _line, that he has faith in them. This motley group; the ones that noticed, the ones that care.

Right here, right now, everything ends. And maybe... maybe it's okay. Maybe the universe can handle itself if left to it. The hurt will subside, the denial will fade, and the memories will be blown away with the Autumn leaves. The name of the Doctor may linger, as a whisper on the wind, as a rumour in the dark corners of the universe, but mostly? He will fade. The last of a mighty empire will flicker out of existence, and the pain: the guilt and the loneliness and the fear and the _hurt. _They will flicker out too.

Will all these thought whirling in his mind, he finds his voice calm, his hands steady. He can face this, finally.

The blast from the gun hits him square in the chest, and for a moment the familiar fear returns, the weight of 1100 years baring down on him from all sides, the transition beginning. Through the haze he sees the panic of his friends: the shock, the hurt. He apologises, even though he knows he can't here him. Simply because he means it. Simply because it was the last thing for him to do.

Then the second blast hits him, and for one moment – one shining, glorious moment – he is hanging, dangling on the edge of the abyss, and... he feels nothing. The pressure and the hurt and the responsibility vanish, fall away, and he is left staring. Staring into the face of what he has been fleeing with his whole existence. The one thing he could not out-run. And he is calm.

When the abyss claims him – dragging him into it's endless depths and closing around him – he welcomes it.

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><p><strong>Moffat has out-done himself this time. Cannot wait until next week, oh god...<strong>

**P.S. If you spot any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors or such like, please let me know. Such mistakes in stories annoy me but I'm terrible at spotting my own. Thanks xxx **


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